(this is how you) bring me back to life
by RascalJoy
Summary: Dick gets comforted by his siblings after a bad day.


**A/N**: Hey y'all! So this is my prompt fill for AlannaofRoses's Christmas stocking! The prompt I chose was: Dick gets comforted after a bad day.

This particular fic was actually an idea I've had for awhile, but I got the motivation to actually write when I chose the prompt and realized it fit pretty well.

(Title a lyric from "Bring Me Back to Life" by Ht Bristol.)

Hope you enjoy. :)

* * *

It was one of those days where nothing went wrong...but nothing really went right either. One of those days where nothing _terribly_ awful happened, but there were enough false alarms and close calls to keep him on his toes. Until suddenly he couldn't keep the pose anymore.

Looking back on it, Dick couldn't quite determine what had brought him to this point. Maybe it was the eight-year-old girl trapped under a beam while the house burned around her that he'd barely reached before everything collapsed at four in the morning. Maybe it was the desperate bullet from a cornered bank robber that shot into his police vest mere centimeters from his exposed neck, leaving a painful, purpling bruise this afternoon.

Or maybe it was all the little things in between; the rush hour traffic when he couldn't drag himself up early enough after crawling under the covers only an hour before, the empty fridge after work since he forgot to stop for groceries, his TV going up in smoke mid-cartoon.

Whatever it was, Dick was drained. Past exhaustion, past coherent thought.

Of course, he'd realized this only after Alfred texted to remind him of family dinner at the Manor tonight. Even Jason was supposed to be there, which was a blessing and a curse in itself. When the invitation had come last week, there really hadn't been a reason to say no.

So now here he was, squealing up Wayne Manor's driveway with eyes half-lidded and pop music blaring in a vain attempt to keep himself from passing out from sheer "doneness with the world" mid-drive.

He ground the car into park, the engine giving a splutter of protest before going silent along with the heavily autotuned singer from the radio.

Dick sagged against the steering wheel, groaning into his frozen fingers.

He couldn't do this. He was too tired. He couldn't face his family right now, couldn't handle the drama that was sure to drown him the second he walked through that ridiculously fancy door.

Dick loved his family. He did. He _did_.

But dealing with them on a good day was hard enough when all they did was make each other miserable. With only Dick to act as mediator. It was exhausting. Dick hated picking sides, hated that it was necessary. Hated that Bruce always mysteriously, conveniently disappeared before he could be dragged into the mess. Finding middle ground took patience and energy Dick didn't always have. Now, would be a good example.

He loved his family. But the thought of walking into a storm of petty arguments and insults made his stomach twist.

Dick sighed into his hands. He couldn't hide out here forever. Alfred would come looking. If anything, Dick could just…sleep. Sink into his bed and not get up until his brain and body had reset into some semblance of functional humanity. Retreat into the sweet embrace of unconsciousness until he was ready to take up the older brother mantle again and be the responsible adult for a spell.

Yeah. Bed sounded good.

Now he just needed to get there.

"Okay, Dick," he whispered. "Baby steps."

_Step one: Take hands off wheel._

He pried his fingers up—one by one by one—until finally their death grip on the pleather ring was relinquished.

_Two: Exit car._

He fumbled with the handle, tugging it so the door unlocked and cracked open. He nudged it with his foot so it swung out all the way with a dull thud. Cold, damp air flooded the interior, making Dick shiver. He swung one leg out, then the other. Stood up.

A wave of dizziness washed over him, made him stumble back against the car, head heavy and blood rushing loud and fast in his ears. Whoops. He remained still, blinking until the spots left his vision. Okay? Okay.

_Three: Knock on front door._

Muscle memory had him shut the car door, press the lock button on the fob. He must've spaced out for a sec, because the next moment he was up on the porch, hand wrapped around the knocker. The brass handle barely touched the plating before the door swung inwards.

Dick blinked owlishly at the sudden empty space in front of his fist, at the butler standing just inside.

"Master Dick," Alfred greeted. "Do come inside. The weather is dreadful."

"Hey, Alf," Dick mumbled, tongue strangely uncooperative as he shuffled into the front foyer. "Made it."

The butler's eyebrows furrowed. "Are you quite all right, Master Dick?" he asked, a touch of concern audible in his tone. "You seem a bit out of sorts."

Dick nodded numbly. "M'good. Promise."

Alfred frowned deeper at that, wrinkled hands grasping Dick's wrists to check his pulse.

Dick sagged against the door frame, allowing the butler to fret over him; brush his knuckles to his forehead, check the dilation of his pupils.

"Alf, I'm fine," Dick croaked; tone dry and cracked even to himself. "Just tired."

Alfred pursed his lips. "If you say so, Master Dick. However, I must insist that you remedy this situation before attempting any of your extracurricular activities. Dinner won't be ready for another hour or so. Go rest."

Dick nodded; more of a droop as his head sagged to his chest and stayed there. "'Kay."

_Step…four. Five? Go to bed._

The walls spun lazy circles around him as he plodded down the hallway, every footstep dragging as if cement had been sealed into his feet. At some point he stumbled through an open door as his hand (when'd he put it on the wall?) suddenly didn't support him.

Blinking, he realized he'd wandered into the main living room. Didn't exactly process more than that, hazy vision zeroing in on the couch. Shuffling across, Dick flopped bonelessly onto the beautiful beautiful silk, sagging into the cushions with a muffled groan.

Just five minutes. Five minutes, and then he'd slip upstairs and hide in his room before any of his siblings caught him like this.

He was fine. He just.

Needed…

Five.

…

Dick couldn't call it sleep, exactly. That is, he never lost consciousness and fell into the peaceful, black abyss of nothingness. He just kind of…drifted. Not fully aware of his surroundings. But not completely oblivious to them either.

It was almost like he was…floating.

A distant part of his mind prompted a word for the sensation, but the far greater part was content with just…existing. Not thinking. Not processing anything. Just drifting through a hazy gray fog.

Dick would rather just be asleep. But it seemed his body wouldn't let him. So this would have to do.

As if through cotton, he thought he caught snatches of phrases, whispered words echoing around him.

"—when did he—?"

"How long—?"

"—moved at all—?"

"—imbeciles do to Grayson?"

The words became clearer, louder; persistent enough against his senses that Dick began to lose his grip on whatever gray area between sleep and awareness he'd found himself in.

"—you must have done something."

"Oh, so it's my fault now, is it? Newsflash, brat: This is the first time I saw him today!"

Nope. No. Dick didn't want to hear it. Wanted instead to sleep and float and forget for a minute how useless he was, how selfish he was to purposely ignore his siblings, how much he wished for a moment he didn't have to exist until he was ready to face the world again.

He turned his nose into the fabric of the couch, squeezing his eyes so tight he saw stars, attempting to block out the invading sounds without actually moving his limbs to do so.

The whispers, which had been growing steadily louder, stopped.

Crap. Had they noticed him move? Please don't drag him into whatever this was. Not now.

Then, "Dick?"

Soft. Concerned.

Dick almost (might have) whimpered.

There was a beat of silence. Two.

"You good, Goldie?" Gruff. Somehow gentle, in its own way.

Dick shook his head before he could think the gesture through, huddling deeper into the couch with a shiver. He was okay. He just needed to rest, to sleep, and he would be fine. He…he needed…

He almost jumped at the feeling of small hands on his arm, of a leg looping over his waist. A familiar small figure climbed over him, pushed at his torso and tugged at his limbs until suddenly someone was wedged in between the couch back and Dick's chest, both arms wrapped around him in a hug.

Dick blinked down at the spiky black hair—the only part of the barely teen visible since his face was buried in Dick's shirt. Slowly, hesitantly, Dick's arm squeezed back where it had been maneuvered around Damian's waist. He pressed his chin into the soft raven crown and closed his eyes.

Damian relaxed into the hold, pressing his nose under Dick's collar bone.

This. This was nice.

But before he could settle again, process the new sensation, revel in the warmth radiating from his littlest brother, another hand tapped his knee.

"Oi, Dickhead, move your feet," Jason griped.

Confused, brain still not quite present, Dick shifted his feet back slightly. Jason snorted. And then hands wrapped around Dick's ankles, hauling them into the air. Dick felt the brush of a shoulder on the underside of his calf, heard a muffled grunt, felt a dip in the couch cushions. And then his feet were rested on someone's—Jason's—lap.

Jason patted his leg a couple times before propping up his forearm on Dick's calf. Dick heard the familiar crackle of an old paperback being opened, the slide of a bookmark being removed from yellowed pages.

There was a rustle by his head, fabric on fabric as someone—Tim, it could only be Tim—sat down in the armchair by Dick's head.

Thin fingers brushed against his scalp, began to card through his hair; gentle and unsure at first, gaining confidence as Dick instinctively angled into the touch. It had been years since he'd been on the receiving end of this, of someone gently stroking his hair and massaging his scalp.

A memory, brief and hazy, of a larger hand mimicking the same path through his curls as Dick lay injured and feverish in his early Robin years came to him. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed this till today.

How much he'd missed being held, being pressed into by people he loved on all sides, sharing a space too small to reasonably contain them all. If there was one thing Dick missed the most from his circus days, it was the touching that came with shared love, affection, and not enough room to do anything but express it.

But that was the circus. The Manor was different. Larger, emptier, easier to escape in the aftermath of disagreements in.

Dick minutely braced himself for the words to start. For the chatter that would inevitably escalate to something sharper, something louder, and ruin this moment.

But it was quiet.

Well…relatively.

Dick could hear(feel) Damian's breath against his chest, each puff warm and slightly tickle-y. Could hear the _sshhhk_ as Jason turned a new page in his book, an occasional quiet whistle or snort through his teeth as he read. And of course, Timmy clumsily typing with one hand at speeds that still defied all human logic, the other one still curling in Dick's hair.

No one arguing. No one speaking. Just…being.

It was…peaceful.

Dick. Dick could handle this. This was good. This was nice.

Slowly, surely, Dick relaxed. Damian pressed tightly into his torso. Jason's legs bouncing up and down beneath his calves. Tim's hand scratching through his hair.

Tears rose unbidden to his eyes as a knot in his core he didn't even know existed began to ease, warmth taking its place.

Overall, it had been a cruddy day. But if this could be how it ended…surrounded by family, not bickering, just enjoying one another's presence…maybe it wasn't so terrible after all.


End file.
